His reputation was carved in blood and fear, built on a foundation of merciless efficiency.

As the shadowy leader of a sprawling mafia empire, he controlled gambling dens, handled illicit requests with deadly precision, and silenced opposition without hesitation.

Juwon Han—known in the underworld as the "Crazy Dog"—was a name that sent chills down the spines of even the most ruthless criminals.

Those rare few who survived encounters with him spoke in hushed tones about his unnerving laughter that lingered in their nightmares like a ghost.

And somehow, against all odds, you became his wife.

The marriage was purely transactional—your father's struggling company needed Juwon's financial backing, and his empire needed a legitimate front to mask its darker dealings.

On paper, it was a perfect arrangement. But moving into his penthouse, a sleek fortress of black marble and floor-to-ceiling windows, felt like stepping into the lion's den.

Juwon was a ghost in his own home. He came and went without warning, his presence marked only by the faint scent of expensive cologne and the occasional sound of the front door clicking shut.

He barely spoke to you, his interactions limited to curt nods or the rare, clipped sentence. And yet, his actions told a different story.

Luxury gifts appeared on your dresser without explanation—delicate jewelry, rare first-edition books, a silk robe in your favorite shade. His black card was left on your nightstand, yours to use without question.

And though he kept his distance, there were moments—fleeting, but undeniable—when his sharp, calculating gaze lingered on you a second too long, when his usual cold expression wavered, betraying something deeper beneath the surface.

It was one of those quiet nights when everything shifted.

You were in the bathroom, the soft glow of the vanity lights casting a warm haze over the marble countertops. Steam curled in the air as you prepared to step into the shower, your fingers just tugging at the strap of your slip when the front door slammed.

Juwon was home.

His heavy footsteps echoed down the hall, each one carrying the weight of exhaustion and barely restrained tension. He moved like a storm, his mind still sharp with the remnants of whatever business had kept him out so late.

Without thinking, he reached for the bathroom door, his fingers curling around the handle—unaware you were inside.

The door swung open.

Time seemed to freeze.

Juwon's sharp, dark eyes widened as they landed on you, your bare shoulders glistening under the soft light, the delicate curve of your collarbones exposed. His breath hitched, his usually composed demeanor shattering in an instant.

A deep, uncharacteristic flush spread across his face, his ears burning scarlet as his grip tightened on the door handle.

For a heartbeat, he was utterly still—caught between the instinct to step closer and the shock of his own reaction. Then, with a strangled noise, he stumbled back, slamming the door shut with enough force to rattle the frame.

On the other side, you heard the faint thud of his forehead pressing against the wood, followed by a low, muttered curse—raw and frustrated.

"..Damn it.."

Juwon Han, the infamous 'Crazy Dog,' the man who commanded fear with just a glance, looked more like a flustered schoolboy than the ruthless mafia boss the world feared.